My fiance is an amazing cook. I could take photos of her doing this all day, every day.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
My love
When I can't write well, I start writing cheesy love poems.. and they all make me think about you.
You love the words that i spin.
I will break your heart once,
and ryhme of it again.
I can pen nothings up to your chin,
and i can push your soul in a cart.
I know you like a book,
and if knowledge is measured in love,
with you i am so damn smart.
Swagger and beak
is that what's important in your cave under the sun?
dwarf-ass motherfucker counting the arguements he's won
the leaps you lept, all to keeping scores
and the dirt that you swept, they were all whores
the hate you sweat, i politely hand back to you
with all the shit i get
on the bottom of my shoe
muah
- Charles A
On my way to China...
I'm headed to China as I type.
I'm going to miss my personal space. My freedom of time. Staying asleep until the crack of noon after staying up all night until sunrise to watch the fucking sky.
My bed is important.. I always miss it. I'll miss waking up next to someone I love in my bed. Being woke up by someone I love in bed. My window. The sun coming in in the morning.
Peace out.
- Charles A
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Fuck love, it's time to get sexy
fuck your body and show me your mind
common ground is hard to find
when the only place i'm behind
is your ass
swallow your tongue and show me your tits?
is that your answer--
to the pieces that just wont fit?
fuck that and make me love you harder
because i am so much smarter
than i am horny.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Happy Father's Day, Mofo
you're like a nail on a chalkboard
you're a hole in my head
backwards motions unable to move forward
you are a brick wall up ahead
you are the scream in my sleep,
and the smirk in my smile
i pray the lord my soul to keep,
if i could get my hands on you for a while
you're the stomp in my feet
and your back is in every crack
you are in every gasping breath
of every anxiety attack
i sat under your tree
the one that never grew to offer me shade
and the lemons that gave me hell
i've made them into lemonade
Thursday, June 17, 2010
i'm stoned, it's time for a parenting lesson
third grade. i come in from school and she was sitting on her little red proper chair with arms and thick fabric. she was holding it, the paper i'd failed, the paper i'd hidden from her in fear of this very situation. she had it in her hand and was giving me what felt like deaths glare. from where i was standing, i felt an instant hallway go up around us. straight shot to her face. i felt like nothing else existed but me, my mistake, and that crazy ass woman.
she had the most demeaning way of speaking to me. like i was a stupid animal and she was going to throw rocks at me or some shit. she'd scrunch her lips and squint her eyes, and roll her head around as she spoke. "do you know what this is?", she'd ask me questions for her own satisfaction of hearing the fear in my voice. it made me sick. i hated her. i knew at even a young age, why the fuck she would ask obvious questions. she fucking loved to hear me quiver under her aggressive power. she'd take control of anyone she possibly could.
she told me to go in my room. i knew what was going to happen, she knew i knew. i could feel the holes in my back as she watched me quickly tip-toe off, in fear that one creak in the floor could set her off even more. she had really "gotten back" at me, and she lived off it like water.
the next thing i remember, is her walking into my room with that same look on her face. that look of absolute... arrogant ignorance that beating me was going to show me the light. doing this hurt me a lot more than it hurt her. she'd wanted me to know that, it's not even something that needs to be said when you see her eyes. scaring me as she took the belt and ran it over her fingers, looking at me crying begging her not to do it. shuffling to the other end of the bed where she couldn't get me. this is what she had been waiting for all afternoon.
she would just start throwing that belt around. it felt like she had two. it felt like her arms were flying one hundred miles per hour and she was never going to stop. as i type this up, everything rushes back. i feel like i've probably repressed it, because when i think about it i feel as if i'm back there.
the belt landing on it's side and leaving those distinct c's over me. the sound of it cracking. how she would kick me when i was down. the feeling of her holding me down by my back and my arms and legs flailing. screaming. thinking back on it, my own screams are the loudest things i've ever heard. i'd turn over, she'd take it and hit my arms i'd held over my face. the feeling of the hatred in her hand penetrated down through me into my veins when i'd slip away, and she'd grab me and slam me back to where she could hit me some more.
i rolled off the bed. i was on my butt on the floor looking up at her. she was so angry i'd actually gotten away from her. as if i shouldn't be fighting it. how do you not fight it? my foster father came in at that point. i liked him much more than her. but all i remember of him now, is how he grabbed me with the same scowl and shoved me face down into the bed where no one could hear me screaming as she continued. when they'd beat me i'd look towards the window. i knew the neighbors. i'd scream for help and wonder why the fuck they never heard me. or.. worse.. why they never said anything.
i remember the day after. i looked in the full-length mirror on the back of my white door and my pale skin glowed with lines of scabs. up the sides of my stomach, on my back, horribly down my whole body, except for the fronts of my thighs. my eyes were still red like i was stoned from all that crying. my throat hurt from screaming. looking myself back into my mirror eyes, i got choked up again.
i feel so awkward being so detailed about things like that in my childhood. it's not something one talks about. it's embarrassing and makes me feel belittled again, just to bring it up. but it links me to another memory..
in third grade - in the corner of our classroom as we sat on the floor working together - i asked a girl i'll always remember the face of, mackenzie bowers - blond hair, spaced out buck teeth, a beige shirt and a crooked smile - "what do your parents do when you don't do well on report cards?". i was more jealous than i've ever been when she said "they tell me to try harder next time".
try harder next time.
- P
she had the most demeaning way of speaking to me. like i was a stupid animal and she was going to throw rocks at me or some shit. she'd scrunch her lips and squint her eyes, and roll her head around as she spoke. "do you know what this is?", she'd ask me questions for her own satisfaction of hearing the fear in my voice. it made me sick. i hated her. i knew at even a young age, why the fuck she would ask obvious questions. she fucking loved to hear me quiver under her aggressive power. she'd take control of anyone she possibly could.
she told me to go in my room. i knew what was going to happen, she knew i knew. i could feel the holes in my back as she watched me quickly tip-toe off, in fear that one creak in the floor could set her off even more. she had really "gotten back" at me, and she lived off it like water.
the next thing i remember, is her walking into my room with that same look on her face. that look of absolute... arrogant ignorance that beating me was going to show me the light. doing this hurt me a lot more than it hurt her. she'd wanted me to know that, it's not even something that needs to be said when you see her eyes. scaring me as she took the belt and ran it over her fingers, looking at me crying begging her not to do it. shuffling to the other end of the bed where she couldn't get me. this is what she had been waiting for all afternoon.
she would just start throwing that belt around. it felt like she had two. it felt like her arms were flying one hundred miles per hour and she was never going to stop. as i type this up, everything rushes back. i feel like i've probably repressed it, because when i think about it i feel as if i'm back there.
the belt landing on it's side and leaving those distinct c's over me. the sound of it cracking. how she would kick me when i was down. the feeling of her holding me down by my back and my arms and legs flailing. screaming. thinking back on it, my own screams are the loudest things i've ever heard. i'd turn over, she'd take it and hit my arms i'd held over my face. the feeling of the hatred in her hand penetrated down through me into my veins when i'd slip away, and she'd grab me and slam me back to where she could hit me some more.
i rolled off the bed. i was on my butt on the floor looking up at her. she was so angry i'd actually gotten away from her. as if i shouldn't be fighting it. how do you not fight it? my foster father came in at that point. i liked him much more than her. but all i remember of him now, is how he grabbed me with the same scowl and shoved me face down into the bed where no one could hear me screaming as she continued. when they'd beat me i'd look towards the window. i knew the neighbors. i'd scream for help and wonder why the fuck they never heard me. or.. worse.. why they never said anything.
i remember the day after. i looked in the full-length mirror on the back of my white door and my pale skin glowed with lines of scabs. up the sides of my stomach, on my back, horribly down my whole body, except for the fronts of my thighs. my eyes were still red like i was stoned from all that crying. my throat hurt from screaming. looking myself back into my mirror eyes, i got choked up again.
i feel so awkward being so detailed about things like that in my childhood. it's not something one talks about. it's embarrassing and makes me feel belittled again, just to bring it up. but it links me to another memory..
in third grade - in the corner of our classroom as we sat on the floor working together - i asked a girl i'll always remember the face of, mackenzie bowers - blond hair, spaced out buck teeth, a beige shirt and a crooked smile - "what do your parents do when you don't do well on report cards?". i was more jealous than i've ever been when she said "they tell me to try harder next time".
try harder next time.
- P
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